


The path where no one goes

by JaqofSpades



Series: They ask no quarter [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 54 prompts in 54 days, Multi, word limits are cruel but easily ignored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In love, as in war, there's no mercy to be found.  Miles, Bass and Charlie surrender to the inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> written 500 (ish) words at a time for the nbc-revolution LJ community's 54 prompts in 54 days challenge. Each chapter is technically a standalone story, so this won't be as linear as some. In fact, possibly not linear at all.

He'd known, right from the minute he saw her, that he would let her down. The inevitability of it paralysed him – his beautiful niece, hope shining in her eyes, had come to the monster hiding in the cupboard to rid her of the monster under her bed.

Bit by bit, he'd whittled away enough self hate to function. To lead their little party across the country, to find Nora, to suck the goodness and light out of the people around him, and take on Monroe. And then, they started dying.

Maggie first. He barely knew the woman, but he owed her a debt. She had seen his darkness, and told him to trust Charlie. To follow her. So he had. And maybe she had saved him, just like Maggie said.

Only, it didn't always feel like that. Sometimes, it felt like he was dying a particularly slow, painful death. “I don't want to watch you die,” Nora had said – and she didn't have to. That pleasure was reserved for him and Charlie, and as he watched the girl's heart break, he swore he could feel the last spark in his godforsaken soul sputtering out.

They were so alike, Charlie and Nora. Both so noble. Stupidly self-sacrificing. He should have known, then, that he was in trouble. But he was barely sensate, mourning Nora, and by the time he noticed he was falling in love with his niece, he was too far gone to do anything about.

The lust came later.

He doesn't count the dreams, because he's not stupid enough to hold himself responsible for the kinky shit his subconscious throws up. And maybe there was the odd occasion where he indulged it a moment longer than he should have, a thought or two beyond waking, hand fisting his cock and body already spurting. But the first time the thunderbolt hit, the first time it fucking _incinerated_ him, was on her return to Willoughby. One minute, he was wondering what the fuck was up with that goddamn can, and the next, she's smiling up at him and he wants to push her up the wall and dive inside all that lush joy. 

Kinda awkward with her mother waiting at home in his bed, and his former lover skulking in Charlie's wake.

He's not proud of what he does next. The hurt in Charlie's eyes crucifies him, so he stops looking at her. And since he can't be in the same room and not look at her, he stays away. And then they're back in the middle of a war, and he's turning back into General Matheson, and Rachel is the only one who seems to care.

(Charlie breathes harder after a battle, her chest rising and falling in quick little pants that leave him hard and aching. He's so busy trying not to look at her, he doesn't think to look at Bass.) 

He rounds a corner one day, and the fucker is kissing her belly, one hand peeling away her jeans while the other works her nipple. Her head is thrashing back against the wood, hips already bucking into him, little moans floating to him on the breeze. _No,_ something inside of him screams. _How long_ , and _she hates him_ , and, wearily, desperately, _this is not the first time_.

His hand is shaking on his sword by the time he manages to turn his back. _Can't kill Bass_ and _we need him_. And besides. These days? _He's only half the monster you are._


	2. In love as in war

He might have resisted, once. Or not. It was the kind of twisted that would have appealed to General Monroe, that's for sure. He remembers thinking it, the first time he saw her. _Oh yeah, that'd fuck Miles over. And I'd enjoy it, too. Wonder if she'd scream?_

He knows Charlie Matheson better now. She wouldn't have made a fucking sound. Would have refused to give him the satisfaction. He could'a ripped her to pieces and she'd just sneer and wait for the moment he was distracted.

Just as well he was too fucking proud to rape a girl. He'd be dead for sure.

Not that trying to do the right thing got him much further. They'd been heading for this from the moment she waltzed her ass down that road in nowheresville, Texas. It had boiled his brain, and suddenly he was stupid for her, downright surrendering his sword to another fucking Matheson.

He told himself it was Miles, for a while. The way she lifted her chin and curled her lip, so glorious in her disdain. The flash of murder in her eyes, and the cool, cool head for combat. The way she watched him, one part curiosity to two parts resentment, furious about the fact that they worked so well together. Killed so well. And if she only let herself …

He'd catch her stare and smirk, refusing to back down. He'd fuck her good. Every way she wanted to be, and then some. It'd be the best she'd ever had, and she damn well knew it. 

And then they hit Willoughby, and it all turns to shit. Miles is being a little bitch – not just to him, but to Charlie too, and Rachel, well. Bitch doesn't cover it. But there's a fight, and another fight, and another one, they're Matheson and Monroe again and Charlie too, and he's having fun.

Has to be why he sticks around when things get hairy. “You came back,” Charlie says, and he doesn't have a fucking clue why, just – it'd be a shame, that's all. He'd miss those blue eyes, full of piss and vinegar. 

And then Texas catches up with him, and they stick a needle in his arm, and the world starts to fade. He can't see a damn thing, can't hear anything except his own heartbeat, deafening him, screaming. MilesCharlieMilesCharlieMilesCharlie. Miles. Charlie. Miles… Char …

Things were clearer after his resurrection. Everything that had clouded the issue for so long was stripped away. He was Sebastian Monroe. He gave no quarter. 

In love, as in war.


	3. All of the above

Somewhere between New Vegas and Willoughby, he seduces her with stories of Miles. Playing soldiers when they were nine. The three month road trip they took before they enlisted. Battles – planes and tanks and warheads before the Blackout, and horses and swords and primitive bombs after.

Nora.

“We'd fucked girls together before, but she was the first one we actually fought over,” he says idly, as if he hadn't just confirmed something she'd always wondered. The irony isn't lost on her – Monroe, who'd ordered Nora tortured in order to track Miles down, is the one person willing to talk about her now she is dead. 

The old hate churns for a moment, but then she looks across at him, eyes glassy and haunted as he stares into the fire. This is not the same man, her stubborn heart insists. She's not sure who he is becoming, or whether it was mad General Monroe who was the aberration, but _this_ is her uncle's oldest friend. The only person left alive who loves Miles as much she does – and the only other man she's willing to rely on. And with Connor and her men sent off to scout the nearby towns, it's just the two of them, filling the air with stories in a bid to avoid all the things left unsaid. 

(Why the hell _did_ she sleep with Connor anyway?)

She could practically see Nora in the flames, that sceptical look on her face that told her in no uncertain terms to put on her big girl panties. She and Monroe -

“Because he loved her?” she dives back into the conversation, not yet ready to face the present.

He shrugs again, as if the answer was too obvious to bother explaining. “Guess so. Used to get pissed when I sent her out on assignment. She was a bounty hunter after all. But like I used to tell him,” he looks up then, and shakes his head in awed memory before surrendering to the lecherous grin. “So much hotter when she came back.”

Charlie had caught glimpses of Miles and Nora snatching kisses in the half dark of the rebel camp, rubbing up against each other when they thought no one could see, and that had been electric enough. Now she's seeing Monroe's bright head bent over them too – gold against Nora's coppery bronze, flame against Miles' coal-black sheen, and the power of it makes her tremble.

But something makes her wonder. 

“Did you ...” her nerve fails her. Once upon a time, she would have been shot for suggesting it, after all.

But the tyrant (not that man, not anymore) is sitting across the fire from her now, eyes fixed on her own, body coiled with anticipation. He wants her to ask.

“Did I what, Charlotte?”

She grits her teeth and makes her voice casual to hide just how much she wants to know.

“Did you fuck them both? Or just … both of you with Nora?”

He closes his eyes and groans as if the memory is made of fine wine and icecream. (He'd told her stories of that, too, licking his lips and lowering his voice as if they were talking about something dirty.) 

“All of the above, kid. All of the above,” he says eventually, eyes locked to hers.


	4. Hello God, it's me, Miles

It all turns to shit, after Austin.

Not that it wasn't shit before then, but they'd still had hope. They'd still had Charlie. And they'd been a team, a halfway good one, him and Bass and Charlie and even the annoying junior leaguers who, fuck it all, had been worth _something_.

And now, Neville junior is dead, and Charlie's a dead-eyed mess, and he's stuck in fucking basement, being taunted by a sickeningly cute kitten poster. Shit happens, yeah, and he knows he's a shit human being, but did he really deserve this?

Don't answer that, Miles thinks, and tries to focus on how the fuck he's going to get out of here. But she needs him – they need him – and fuck. Just this once, please?

He'd been good, kept his distance from Bass, stayed away from Charlie. (When he saw them together, his imagination started filling in the fucking gaps, and yeah, those thoughts sure as hell were not getting him out of here.)

I'm listening to Rachel, okay? I'll make her my fucking conscience, if that's what you want. I'll make her my fucking _life_ , if you just let me out of here. For Chrissakes – they probably haven't even figured out where to look yet, and goddammit they better not leave Charlie alone while she's like that, all zombiefied and quiet. She's not right, no matter how many times she insists she's fine.

He's killed a lot of people, but never someone he loved. (He tried, once. Couldn't do it.) But Charlie loved harder than anyone he knew, yet had still been able to put a bullet into the kid she'd mooned over for months. Her mother's daughter, that one.

(Not mine, please. Not mine.)

But you obviously don't give a damn about me any more, or I'd have been dead years ago. Probably damned twice over, by now. A little bit more every time I look at them.

Because I'm not imagining it. The way they're looking back.

His mouth goes dry, and all the blood left in his body heads straight for his cock. Fuck. I'm praying to the wrong dude, Miles despairs. 

We're all going straight to hell. So fucking be it.

 _After_ I get out of this basement.


	5. Let your healing rivers run

These are his scars: 

Shrapnel, right shoulder. Bullet wounds – six. More stab wounds and sword slashes than he cares to count.

His family. 

Shelley and the baby. 

Miles, the first time. 

Miles, the second time. 

Miles, the third time. 

Connor. 

This is how they begin to heal: 

“You came back.”

“Thanks, Bass.”

“Welcome back, General Monroe.”

Respect, adulation, the thrill of battle. Realising they mean nothing.

Miles, waiting in his tent at the end of a long day. “Got something for me here? Think I'm done with Willoughby,” he says, and Bass refuses to let himself hope.

Charlie riding in the next day, curling up next to him on his pallet, and telling him about the breakup. “They talked about you a lot,” she says quietly. “Yelled, actually. Mom said he never stopped loving you.”

Her eyes, full of understanding, as she props her forehead against his. “It's okay, you know. I don't mind.”

The niggling suspicion that turns into stunned awareness as he watches her, watching Miles.

“I try not to,” she confesses, but he's not noble about this. Can't be. She's riding him the first time he does it, already slippery from one orgasm when he tells her what it's like, having that big body wrapped around you, that curving blade of a cock inside. She immediately shatters for the second time, and he wants to tell her, right then, but he has to be sure.

A week later, they roll out of bed to find Miles waiting outside, cheeks scarlet and jaw tight. His eyes darken when they latch onto the bruise blooming just below Charlie's ear, and Bass knows immediately, then. Sure, they've been a little bit too loud, and it's not like he's forgotten how much Miles loves the curve of a woman's neck, but he didn't plan it. Not really.

He'd like to think it's good karma, but he knows it can't be that. Blind luck, perhaps. Or fate. Only thing it could possibly be, with what comes next.

“Blanchard wants the three of us to head west and set up something with California,” Miles says shortly. “We leave tomorrow.”

Bass knows he should be thinking about his troops, and the responsibilities he has here. But something inside of him is leaping, delirious at the thought of just the three of them, on the road together. Charlie knows it too, the minx, smirking up at him as he beams at the world.

He knows how to get rid of it, though.

Bass ignores the soldiers milling about and pulls her into his arms. She raises her face for a kiss, but he eludes her lips, choosing to nibble on her ear instead. Just when she's ready to beg, he breathes the words straight into her ear.

“He wants you too.”


	6. Greet the day

She takes the last watch, the one that lets her see dawn creep into the camp, the gentle fingers of light soft and forgiving on their faces. Miles would frown and Bass would froth at the mouth if they knew how much of her four hours she spends watching them, but she doesn't neglect her duty, not really. She simply lets her gaze settle on them between sweeps of the camp, and wonders.

She's seen them sleep before, beds and couches and random corners in innumerable safe houses, but this – isn't that. They don't avoid each other, or glare across the room for hours before hunkering down into resentful silence. They don't stay awake, staring out into the night, as if they'd rather take on its terrors than be forced to talk.

Deep into enemy territory, just her to watch their backs, they seem … happy. Relaxed, at least. Enough to actually sleep. Charlie watches, mesmerised, as their bodies turn into each other, arms and hands tangling together, faces smoothing into contentment, united against the cold. She can't look away, the warmth in her chest more than making up for the frozen fingers she curls inside her jacket.

She craves this, during the day. These moments before they wake make it easier to endure the bullshit fights, the endless sniping, and the inevitable alcoholic catatonia they retreat to before collapsing into their bedrolls at night. 

(They drop them so carelessly, those bedrolls. They bounce and tumble off each other, but manage to find a strange order, fanning out from the fire. Charlie is closest, warmest, then behind her, Bass, and behind him, Miles. Always.)

Bass takes the first watch, Miles sitting up with him for an hour or two as Charlie lets their low-voiced arguments soothe her to sleep. Eight hours later, Miles wakes her, a question in his eyes as she climbs out of the shelter of Bass' warm body.

She has questions of her own.

Where does she fit, in the predawn light? She takes the last watch, craves it, seeing them like this, but every time she does …

She wants to slide in between them, say goodbye to the dawn, and greet the day.


	7. I'd probably still adore you

Bass wakes to the tickle of long hair catching on his stubble. “Charlotte,” he murmurs, and reaches up to tangle his hand in that glorious mane, no thought in his head other than pulling her down next him, back to sleep.

“Charlie,” he hears, a hoarse echo of his own intentions. A gasp – her gasp – forces his eyes open to find Miles looming over her, one huge hand wrapped around her neck. There's horror in his eyes, though, and what started out as a chokehold has already become something else, tender fingers travelling in awe over silken skin. It's not as erotic as he thinks it is, Bass tells himself, but his own cock is calling him a liar. Watching Miles manhandle his niece shouldn't be … this.

But it's Charlie who moans, and undulates upwards, forcing that lucky hand down onto the fullness of her breast. It halts there, panic flaring in his best friend's face, making Bass curse his own arousal. He should say something, he knows. Pull Charlie into his own body and let Miles escape with his dignity intact. Instead he trails his hand down, onto her other breast, to pluck the already turgid nipple between his fingers.

“Is this what you want, Charlotte?” he asks. “Both of us?”

Miles goggles at him, caught in a wordless 'what the fuck?', but his hand hasn't quite got the memo – it's already playing along, tweaking and rolling and tugging, even as his conscience protests. Charlie bites her lip, pushes herself into their hands, and starts to undo her jeans.

“Charlie?”

Bass rolls his eyes at the thinly-disguised plea. Miles is looking for someone to save him from himself, but it's just them here. Him and Charlie. Neither of them prone to putting up with Miles' self-flagellating bullshit.

“What am I supposed to say, Miles? 'Oh God, you're my uncle, don't touch me?' You know I can't lie for shit,” she says defensively. 

“Yes, I want this. Bass has a thing about Mathesons and apparently, I have a thing for old men. What do you want?” she attacks, dragging his hand down her midline, and pushing it into the gape of her open jeans.

Miles growls then, and it's blessedly familiar, that declaration of carnal intent. Bass lets himself breathe again, trying not to hyperventilate. He hadn't let himself think about this possibility, not really, because Miles and Charlie, Miles and Charlie … 

“Bass!”

He snaps out of his stunned fugue to find his brother has shoved up Charlie's shirt and pulled her bra down to suck furiously on one pouting nipple. His hand is buried deep in her pussy, only his thumb visible, and Charlie's eyes are wild with the barrage of pleasure. She's panting, his girl, reaching for him, and he can't help but stare, because he's never seen anything like this, like them. Miles cocks an eyebrow, then lifts his head to grin up at him.

“Not like you to keep a girl waiting, brother,” he challenges wickedly, forcing Bass into action. He blindsides them with his widest smile, then makes a grabs for Miles' hand, tugging it free of its warm, wet haven. 

“Not waiting,” Bass smirks, then sucks those broad, deadly fingers into his mouth one by one, his tongue making love to every callous, and every scar, and every sticky-sweet trace of the woman they both adore.


	8. Madness

His sanity evaporates somewhere between his third and fourth fingers. It's been five years since he and Bass shared anything more than a hug, and he'd forgotten how good the man was with his tongue. 

Miles wants to close his eyes and give himself over to the feeling, but that would mean not being able to see Charlie, and he's decided something. He never wants to take his eyes off the girl again. Not when he's seen her like this: wild-eyed and flushed with arousal, shirt pushed up and jeans gaping open as she sprawls in his lap, staring up at Bass. Squirming. 

Probably because she needs to come, Miles realises belatedly. Fuck. It's not the first time he's ignored a girl for Bass, but he's never felt bad about it before. But maybe he's not the only one, because Bass has released his fingers with a sucking pop, and is pulling Charlie to her feet. She sways a little, uncertain, and Miles is torn between reaching out to steady her and waiting to see what Bass is up to. It'll be worth it, he's sure. His brother's speciality had always been knowing what will get Miles hotter, faster, higher than anything else.

It still is.

“Strip,” Bass snarls, and something in his eyes has prickly, scrappy Charlie rushing to obey. Shirt, bra, boots and jeans land in a haphazard pile, then she's simply standing there, nude, chin lifted in challenge. Bass rakes cold eyes over her, then quirks an eyebrow at Miles, the gesture so familiar that he doesn't have to say a thing. _After you, brother._

They're years past pretending this isn't happening, so Miles lets himself look. Unlike Bass, he doesn't bother to pretend indifference – this is Charlie, delicious and forbidden and so thoroughly, undeniably _his_ , he thinks fiercely. She's all honey, caramel and cream: the tumble of her hair, tan strip across her belly, those little handfuls of breasts sitting high and proud over the long, gentle curve of her torso. So pale under that tan, he thinks wonderingly, but the thought merely flutters past as his attention is grabbed by sharp hipbones jutting either side of a belly hard with muscle, and the surprisingly dark, lush bush in between.

His mouth waters.

“Come here,” he grits out, and eases himself back on his elbows, never taking his eyes from her. Somewhere, he can hear Bass laughing, and later he'll kill him for that, right after he's done thanking him. 

Charlie raises an eyebrow but sidles towards him anyway, sliding her foot up his still-trousered leg to massage his cock with the ball of her foot. When he groans, she flashes him that miraculous grin, then steps over him, obviously planning to drop into his lap.

“No,” he says sharply, and slides his hands up the inside of her legs, then around onto her ass before tugging her forward. “Just like that,” he breathes into her belly, nipping at the skin there, and sinking his tongue into her navel before pushing her legs wider. Then pulls her forward, over his face.

He's not surprised when Bass steps in behind him, rock hard thighs tight against his back. Miles admits he gets off on control, but Bass likes to watch, and … yeah. Seeing Charlie all strung out is suddenly pretty high on his wishlist, but one lick, two, and he's inside, drowning in her sweetness. He's lost in her, blind and deaf to the world, and it's not until their bodies close around him he realises they are kissing above his head, Bass devouring her mouth while Miles feasts below.

Thankfully, he's holding her up too. Charlie's knees buckle as she starts to grind down onto his face, her hips writhing under his hands in staccato jerks that threaten to unseat them both. He fucks her through it with sharp stabs of his tongue, then backs off a little, simply chasing her juices with slow, gentle licks.

She's wiped out, he realises when he lifts his head. Wrapped in Bass' arms, completely done. 

“You okay, kid?”

Her face is incredulous, if dazed, when she turns to chew him out. 

It's only when she notices his smirk that she gives in to laughter, and they collapse into each other, all three of them, delighted with this madness they've wrought.


	9. And came the dawn

Something in the bedroll is scratchy against her skin, and she's starting to prickle with gooseflesh even as the sun pinks the eastern sky. Charlie shivers and burrows tighter into her uncle's broad chest, pulling Monroe's arms tight around her. Bass, she corrects herself. Even if he did go all General there for a bit. 

The memory ripples through her, and she's suddenly she's less cold. Not that it was necessarily for her benefit. The way Miles had stared at him, then turned that dark, hot look on her … one day she'll ask them what that's all about. For now, though, they've dropped the masters-of-the-universe act. Miles is stroking her back in long, shivery swoops, and Bass is tugging on her hair as he kisses his way around her ear. It feels good, really good, but she can't, she's not … Charlie twitches away, inexplicably restless. Bass shoots her a look that falls somewhere between enquiring and hurt, but she just shakes her head and sits up to give herself a little space.

She feels … over-exposed. Emotionally raw. They've tripped gaily down the path where no one goes, spat in the face of taboo, and they're just lying here, a pile of puppies and kittens. Without even a button undone. 

Maybe it's the Matheson in her that needs to tip the balance. 

“I want to see.”

Bass freezes, and she knows he has understood her perfectly. Miles frowns in confusion, but he'll figure it out soon enough. Or they'll show him. Either's fine with her.

Miles looks from Charlie to Bass, waiting for an explanation. Bass levers himself away from the other man, obviously uncomfortable, rubbing his hand over his mouth, groping for what to say.

“I'm not sure – I don't think -”

Charlie raises her eyebrows, her mockery successfully goading him into eloquence.

“It's not me Miles wants to fuck right now,” Bass snaps. “You're pretty much the flavour of the fucking year, Charlie.”

Miles chokes on his own snort, then looks helplessly from Bass to Charlie, then back to Bass. “Uh -”

“Don't worry about it, brother. This is … more than enough for me. More than I'd ever hoped for.” 

The note of resignation grates over her already raw nerves, and Charlie's fists itch with the need to teach her asshole uncle a lesson. Drink like a Matheson, fight like a Matheson, fuck 'em up like a Matheson, she fumes. Some legacy. She's about to kiss Bass, to pull him into her and make it clear she chose him first, when Miles finally lurches into coherence.

“Yeah, not really true,” he says. “Not that I don't want that. But, Jesus. Bass.” Miles looks away, seemingly chewing on the words, then spitting them out. “Every day of the last five years, Bass. No matter who I was with.” 

Charlie watches Bass as the confession lands. The flare of hope in his eyes sends a glad little shiver down her spine, but then she has to watch it die, snuffed out by a blazing, boiling resentment. He pushes himself back into Miles' face, but this time, it's pure threat.

“I thought I was a black hole, Miles. The worst decision you ever made,” Bass taunts, nose to nose with his former lover. “Not. Family,” he grinds through gritted teeth.

Miles looks stricken at first, but they're still them. Warlords at heart, happier to swing a sword than have an honest conversation. One giant hand lands on Bass' shoulder to push him away, but the other makes a grab for his fist. And misses, only to catch it on his chin. He rears back, outraged, then throws his entire body over Bass, the two of them pummelling each other as they roll around on the bedroll.

Sex with their clothes on, Charlie concludes seconds later. She wonders if it was ever any different between them, or whether this was the latest in a long series of pretexts.

“Give it the fuck up, you dick,” Miles yells, pinning Bass' arms overhead and pinioning his bucking hips with his own. 

“You'd like that,wouldn't you?” Bass purrs hatefully. “Wouldn't have to admit anything? Just flip me over and fuck me?”

Charlie's pulse starts to slam even as her heart lurches at the hatefulness of it.

Miles doesn't make a sound, and there's nothing as telltale as tears. Just pain, radiating from every line of his body.

“No, Bass. No. Not like that,” he chokes out eventually. “I'm sorry. Sorry I left. Sorry I couldn't tell you …”

Bass freezes for a moment, then forces himself back onto the attack. “I bet you are. Sorry no one could suck cock the way I did, maybe,” he sneers. “Or - was it the fact that that no one else could make you take it the way I could?”

She's trying to figure out how to make them stop, when Miles shrugs in almost amused agreement. “Yeah, that too. But mostly cause I was a fucking coward. Always were, with you.” He lets go, then, but one hand is reluctant to be parted, tracing a slow line down Bass' forearm, over his elbow, then lingering on the hardness of his bicep.

It makes Bass _whimper_.

The moment throbs between them, and Charlie shuffles a little closer. She's closer again by the time Miles yanks Bass' belt free of its loops, and frees him from his jeans. And when he drops his head in reverent thanks, she's holding Bass' hand, mesmerised, as Miles licks his way around the helmeted head, and along that single, throbbing vein, and underneath, to hairy balls and clenched buttocks and the mysterious places between.

And she gets what she needs, in the end. To hear Bass pant and beg and whine, thoroughly undone. To see Miles stare and thrash as his hips begin to jerk uncontrollably. To hold them both, naked and sweaty, emotions rubbed raw.

To unite them, Miles bucking up into her from below, Bass above, driving her to a place beyond pleasure, beyond the fight. Obliterated, soul and body and spirit nothing but another shade of bliss streaking the early morning sky.


	10. Victory

Things he'd forgotten: the taste of Miles, sweat sharp and tangy under his tongue. The little noises that forced their way from his lips as if Bass was torturing him. The unforgiving press of that long, thin cock, stretching and burning as he tried to be gentle.

Gentle, my ass, Bass thinks darkly.

Miles fucks like he fights – taunts at first, mean little teases, and then, an onslaught of virtuosity. But when it counts, when it's real and important, he loses all delicacy. Miles pistons into him, relentless, lost to the moment, and feeling him like that, watching him surrender – that's the victory, right there. 

He'd beat himself up over it, when they were kids wrestling with the shit small town America liked to plant in your brain. He wasn't just a faggot, Bass would despair, he was the girl, the one that got fucked. The bottom, he learned later.

Took him years to figure out how powerful that was. It's not until he's taking his tactical warfare unit that it hits him – sometimes, submission is the stronger position. The victor yields. And he feels the truth of it in his bones, in the way Miles slumps over his back, shaking, groping for Bass' hands as if they're his one last anchor to the universe. 

Bass wonders what Charlie is thinking, alone behind those huge blue eyes of hers. She's moved a little closer, but is still just outside of reach, watching them. Maybe she doesn't understand, he panics. If he could forget ...

He wants to explain it to her, tell her how important this is. But he can't put the words together, because Miles has stolen every brain cell he has. Triggering a thousand lost memories. There's an urge to close his eyes, to let his senses loose to roll in them, but … he needs to stay here. She's their anchor now. 

His eyes refuse to slip closed lest they lose contact with Charlie, and maybe they're pleading with her, because she slides in closer, runs her hands over his arms and shoulders and down his belly, and doesn't shy away when he attacks her mouth, desperate.

He's taking the victory, claiming it, one Matheson ravaging his ass and the other sucking sweetly on his tongue as he pulls her into him, under him, around him. There's no prize like this one, no medal, no battle, no victory as sweet. He'd forgotten, for a while. But the minute he remembers, and admits it? That he's totally, completely, wholly theirs? Owned?

They all win. And he'll never let any of them forget it again.


	11. Not sorry

She wakes, body sticky and replete, blinking sleepily at the sun grinning down from high in the blue. Noon, Charlie judges, and grins back. She's never woken at noon before, and the very thought of it adds to the delicious languor weighing down her limbs. 

“Decadent,” she murmurs, slowly pushing herself upright to stretch her arms overhead. Her body burns with the movement, and when she looks down, she can't help but blush. There's a scatter of bruises over her hipbones, a patchwork of places where her sensitive skin has been rubbed raw by their stubble, and an angry bite, oozing slightly, on the side of her breast. She runs a wondering finger over it, and her breath stutters as she remembers their ferocity, teeth and tongues and hands and cocks claiming her, over and over again.

She's sore, but not even an iota of sorry.

She does, however, need to pee, Charlie realises with a groan. There's a heavy arm pinning her down at the hips – Miles, she smiles, reaching out for both of them, even in his sleep. She tries to lift it off gently, but after several attempts, grumpily concludes there is no point. He's a dead weight, snoring, fast asleep. Gently isn't going to do it.

She shoves with all her might, finally managing to rise to her feet, groping about for her clothes. Her jeans are easy, flung to one side, but her shirt is … there. Under Bass' shoulder. The two men are already reaching for each other around the Charlie-shaped gap, so she takes advantage of their movement to whip her shirt out.

And trips over Bass' outstretched leg, landing on top of him in an ungainly sprawl.

He's half upright, eyes wild, before he registers exactly who it is and relaxes into a smile as sunny as the day around them. He helps her right herself until she's straddling his thighs, arms looped loosely about his neck.

“Going somewhere?”

“Nope. Not really. Just … call of nature,” Charlie shrugs, trying not to blush. The things they did …

“Oh, but there's a rule for this kind of thing,” Bass drawls. “Morning after the night before? You don't just creep off.” His eyes are hot on her face, but something tells her there's a question underneath. A vulnerability, even.

Charlie slides herself even further into his lap, tangling her fingers in his every-which-way hair. “Not going anywhere,” she breathes, her mouth hovering over his. “Just enjoying the sun.” 

She licks the lightest of kisses into his mouth before pushing herself up to her feet again and reaching for her crossbow. 

“Besides. It's more afternoon than morning, and I need to eat. Which means someone needs to hunt. And since I've obviously incapacitated the two old men …” she blows him a kiss and stupidly looks away.

And promptly finds herself on her back again, yelling her delight to the cloudless sky.


	12. Perfectly monstrous

Miles wakes to the smell of sweetgrass and sex, and is already snuffling in that direction when he has a painful encounter with the yellow ball high in the sky. He slams his eyes shut, but it's a mistake. He's just pressed play on the endless porno reel in his head; lights, sound and action on several hours of moral degeneracy.

Yep. Fucking his niece is certainly a new low. And he doesn't want to think about the look on Charlie's face as he moved inside of her, that uncontrollable hunger he knew so fucking well. She'd been looking at Bass, too, almost in tears as she begged him to stop teasing her, to let her come. True enough, the shudders didn't start until his brother whispered the order into her ear, driving her into a series of orgasms that left them both wrecked.

His hand is on his cock, reliving it, but the guilt demon that sits on his shoulder is working hard to make him second guess whatever the fuck this was. And he doesn't want to label it, thank you very much, but a bunch of nasty words are sitting up to present themselves anyway. Seducer. Debaucher. Pervert. Libertine.

And that old, familiar favourite. Monster.

And he's thrown back to long blonde hair and a gappy six-year-old smile, a little girl wrapped in a red cloak for trick or treating on Halloween. Red Riding Hood, she'd explained, indignant, and Jesus he's sick to be remembering that now. Sick to be wondering if it's him or Bass playing the Big Bad Wolf.

She'd marched straight into their jaws, after all, and he'd tried fucking hard to show her the monster he was. No wonder it didn't work, though: she'd seen Bass at his worst, and still brought him back. They needed him, she'd insisted. And she hadn't been wrong. They did. He did.

Because monsters belonged together. 

Had they known, even then? Who they could be? Even before they'd come along, Little Red had a mean-looking crossbow, a dead-eye shot, and a killer right hook. They'd just … taught her new things. How to kill. How to move on. How to survive.

How to be the scariest goddamn monster in the woods, and love it.

Miles pushes his eyes open a second time, and follows scent and sound to where Charlie is sprawled on her back, Bass hovering above her, just a few feet away. She's filling the afternoon with delighted shrieks as he bites his way down her body, and even though it's late, even though the day is wasting, he's not about to tell them to stop. Fuck the mission.

They deserve this bit of happiness. Light in the darkness. Because later, they'll have to hunt again. They'll probably kill again. Will they even wash the blood off their hands before they fuck? 

Maybe, maybe not.

It's who they are, after all. Matheson, Monroe and Matheson, the monsters three. His fucked up, monstrously perfect little family.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All written for the 54 prompts in 54 days challenge over the nbc_revolution community on Live Journal.   
> I'm marking this as complete though I'll probably return to this same universe for the next group of prompts. Such fun, paddling in the dark end of the pool with my OT3 :D


End file.
